Whatever you decide, Clara, please know . . . I’m sorry. From the deepest part of my soul . . . I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Dennis Falco
I stared at the floor as I lay the letter on the table. I was speechless. How did I not know about this? I lifted my gaze to meet Clara’s and found she was watching me. She was angry. And hurt. Rightfully so. Never in a million years would I have thought that this was why my uncle left her half the business.
She took the letter and folded it, placing it in front of her.
“The keychain? They’re your parents’ initials?”
She nodded yes.
“Clara, I—”
“Just go, Paul,” she interrupted me.
I stayed in my seat and observed her. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t force myself to leave like this. She stood and took her mug to the sink. I had to do something, anything. My uncle killed her parents. I felt so betrayed and angry. He was my hero, my idol in so many ways. How could he have kept this from me?
Standing, I met her at the kitchen sink and tried to hug her, but she pushed me away. “Don’t,” she growled. But I didn’t listen. I pulled her to me and hugged her even when she struggled to push me off. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she seethed.
I released her and let her back away. Her eyes were glossed over with angry tears as she breathed heavily, glaring at me. Fuck. I hated seeing her like this. I rushed her before she had a chance to stop me. I picked her up and sat her on the counter. Her hands pressed against my shoulders, attempting to push me away, but I was stronger. I kissed her neck and shoulders, burying my face in her chest, and pleaded with her.
“Please forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. Please, Clara.” I couldn’t stop apologizing. We struggled together, her pushing me away, me trying to hold on. Finally, she seemed to give in, to succumb to my lips on her skin. She let her head lull back for a moment before remembering her anger and fought me again. “Shh,” I whispered. “Just let me hold you. Let me make it up to you.”
Her body seemed to sag with my words as tears streamed down her face. I picked her up and carried her upstairs to her bed. I spent the next three hours telling her how sorry I was without words. I worshipped her. I rubbed her body from head to toe. I kissed every inch of her soft skin. I made love to her.
And when we were done, she closed her eyes, her mind and body sated. I watched her sleep for a while before climbing out of bed and dressing. I was restless, my mind moving a thousand miles a minute. Quietly, I made my way down her ancient, creaky stairs and went to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I stared at the emptiness and snorted. She didn’t have shit in it. Maybe I would go pick up a few things and cook her something nice for dinner. I needed to make a list. I began opening drawers, searching for a notepad when I found a piece of paper that looked like a journal entry made by Clara. I recognized her handwriting from the many papers we’d completed together in the office. I stared at the paper again. I shouldn’t have read it. It wasn’t my place to . . . not without her permission. But I took it from the drawer and let my eyes scan it line by line.
Today has been a bad day.
Today, my parents died twenty-five years ago.
Today, Marcus acted like a gigantic dick face.
Today, Kurt took another step away from me, from our life together.
I think I miss him.
I shouldn’t.
Maybe I just miss us—who I thought we were.
He’s a bad person. I know this. Maybe not entirely bad, but mostly bad. He tossed me aside. Don’t I deserve better? Did I not love hard enough? Did I not give enough? I think I did. I really do.
I’ve made peace with my parents passing. Being that I was so young makes it a little easier to bear.
But Kurt is a fresh wound.
I need to let him go. But hearts don’t work like light switches; they don’t just flick on and off. They swell rapidly with love and bleed out slowly with pain.
I should be stronger. I should be able to shut myself down to his memory. But I’m not strong enough yet.
They say the opposite of love isn’t hate, but indifference. I hate him. I hate him so much I feel it seeping out of my pores, toxifying everything around me.
I don’t want him back. I don’t. Not who he is now. I want my life back. I want the safety I felt in my marriage back. I want the days where we held hands and dreamed a millions dreams together back when I believed him when he said I was his forever. When he told me no one could take my place. I want that man back. I want that type of love in my life.
But he’s gone.
And now, given his cruelty and seemingly unfeeling actions, I have to wonder . . . was he ever really there? Was it all a façade? Was I a fool the whole time seeing only what I wanted to see?